QSFer Liv Rancourt has a new gay/polt paranormal romance out, Soulmates book 3: Redeemed.
Trajan has been given one command: kill Connor.
Connor has only one objective: stay alive.
David has a single desire: save them both.
When Connor crosses Trajan’s maker, the results are deadly. Trajan is instructed to kill his lover, and it’s impossible for a vampire to disobey the one who made him.
Impossible.
The lovers are on the run, relying on their unique skills to survive. Connor has the authority of the Elites and David possesses the power of an alpha wolf. And Trajan? He’s got his vampire heritage…if he can figure out how to use it.
He needs to work quickly, though, or his life – and Connor’s – will be forfeit.
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Excerpt
CHECK IT. WE’RE in a Ralph’s parking lot near the corner of Obama Boulevard and S. La Brea, and I’m ready to start knocking heads together. Connor wants to call the car rental company and extend our contract for another day. I don’t know why we’re renting cars when it’d be more anonymous to use Uber. Trajan sees nothing wrong with “borrowing” a car when we need one.
Trajan’s thinking his way would be cheaper. I mean, he’s not wrong, as long as we don’t get arrested, an issue the vampire doesn’t stop to consider. When you can “suggest” that a cop go bother someone else, borrowing cars is NBD. Except our Boy Scout Boyfriend won’t put up with us stealing cars on the regular.
Connor and Trajan are in the front seat of our rented Toyota, while I’m draped across the back. “Staying out of sight would be easier if we weren’t in the same car all the time.” I try for patience but don’t really stick the landing. Trajan parked his Land Rover in Stone’s warehouse for the duration, but if we keep any car for too long, Jacques will find it.
Connor glances at me with a half smirk. “Do you know how many RAV4s there are in the city of Los Angeles?”
Trajan doesn’t answer him, and neither do I.
“We’ve got all our stuff in here already. Let’s just go to wherever we’re staying tonight, and I’ll pay for an extra day.” Connor puts the car in gear, as if he’s settled the argument.
I guess he has. I mean, so what if Jacques Betancourt’s minions connect us to this particular pearly grey RAV4? At least it’s nicer than the last car Connor rented.
Tonight, we’re staying in a VRBO off Crenshaw. The neighborhood’s not Beverly Hills, but we’ve stayed in sketchier places. I deliberately chose a bit of an upgrade; after three weeks on the run, staying no longer than two days in any one place, I’m over the whole anonymous-hotel-room-with-smelly-carpet-and-a-vampire-closet thing.
I’m also desperate for a washer and dryer. There are only so many times I can wear the same pair of jeans.
We’re lying low, while at the same time trying to figure out where Jacques is hiding. Jacques, Jacques, Jacques. Trajan’s maker and now his curse. Jacques wants Connor dead, and he told Trajan to do the deed.
And a vampire can’t really argue with his maker.
But there’ll be no killing, not if I can help it. No way am I going to let our very pleasant menage break up over murder.
No fucking way.
The only sound is the GPS giving Connor directions to our new place. Trajan hasn’t really said much since he rose. He’s still wearing black wrap-around shades because he claimed the sun hadn’t fully set when we left on this little adventure. Looks pretty damned dark to me, but I like his hitman chic vibe so I don’t call him on it.
When Siri tells us our destination is on the right, I straighten in my seat. The place is white stucco and a pair of fierce looking sword plants guard either side of the front door. “If you two grab the bags, I’ll bring the groceries in and start dinner,” I say. “And if you’re hungry too, Tray…”
I let the words fade and he hums a response. Not quite the level of enthusiasm I was hoping for, but better than nothing.
“Let’s get the gear in.” Connor parks in the driveway. The glance he sends my way says he might be hungrier for more than the steaks we bought, and I roll my eyes. We might be hiding from a pissed-off vampire sire, but our dicks don’t really care.
Giving myself a shake, I grab the shopping bags and head for the front door. We can play when our stuff’s stowed away and the SUV is in the garage. They wait in the car until I’ve got the door unlocked. These moments, while we hustle between whatever we’re driving and wherever we’re staying, feel too exposed, and my heart trips along while I punch in the code to open the lockbox holding the key.
I open the door, invite Trajan in, and head for the kitchen. Once we’re inside we’re safe—or safer—because Jacques’ vampire minions can’t come in without an invitation. Locked doors won’t keep out non-vamp minions, but they’ll slow them down at least.
Connor and I alternate cooking—well, one of us cooks and the other feeds Trajan. There’s something fairly erotic in watching your vampire lover feed while you’re grating cheese over pasta or tossing a salad.
“It’s the closest thing we have to a tradition,” I say, setting the Ralph’s bags on the counter.
Connor leans through the kitchen door, a suitcase in each hand. “What?”
“Nah, nothing.” I smile to show I’m really okay. It’s a waste of time to feel bad that we don’t have regular date nights while we’re doing our best to stay alive.
Author Bio
Liv Rancourt is a multi-published author of gay and m/m romance. Because love is love, even with fangs.
Liv is a huge fan of paranormal romance and urban fantasy and loves history just as much, so her stories often feature vampires or magic or they’re set in the past…or all of the above. She also co-authors two m/m paranormal romance series with Irene Preston. Their partnership works because Liv is good at blowing things up and Irene is good at explaining why.
When Liv isn’t writing she takes care of tiny premature babies in the NICU. Her husband is a soul of patience, her kids are her pride and joy, and her dogs – Trash Panda and The Boy Genius – are endlessly entertaining.
| Author Website | https://livrancourt.com/ |
| Author Facebook | https://www.facebook.com/liv.rancourt |
| Author Twitter | https://twitter.com/LivRancourt |